The Cockney Girl

by The Cockney Girl (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  Robert urged his tall chestnut horse to go faster still. The animal extended its stride until it was galloping, going flat out. Sweat lathered in white flecks from the friction of the reins rubbing on its golden sorrel neck. The animal did not hesitate at the hedge, but flew over it with a huge surge, landing easily in the next. Robert reined the horse in harshly, turning it round to face the fence it had just cleared.

  ‘Woah. Steady. Steady,’ he commanded. A smaller, bay horse took the jump and landed beside them.

  ‘Not quite so confident as you, Robert,’ laughed Paul, cantering off across the meadow, ‘but we get there.’

  Robert whipped his horse forward and quickly caught up with his brother.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that, Paul, if you’re going to hunt that old nag this season,’ he mocked.

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ panted Paul, desperately trying to keep his horse level with his brother’s mount. ‘You’re the expert in hunting, aren’t you? Always catch your prey.’ His words came in short, panting gasps as the wind took his breath. ‘Especially little red-haired vixens,’ he puffed. ‘Mind you, you seem pretty keen to let the quarry go once you’ve caught it.’

  ‘Too right I do. What use would I have for a wild animal?’

  ‘Especially once you’ve tamed it, eh, Robert?’

  ‘Especially then, Paul,’ grinned Robert. He curbed his animal brutally, making it skid to a halt. ‘Come on. Race you back to the Hall. I seem to remember I have a fiancee waiting for me.’

  Chapter 12

  Old Granny Rawlins

  ‘’Ow did ol’ Warner take it, then?’ Rose fed the corner of the soaking-wet sheet into the rollers of the big iron-framed wringer. Her fingers were numb with the cold.

  ‘’E took me an’ Win back all right,’ said Jessie, dragging the rest of the bed sheet from the little tin bath as her mother turned the heavy handle, squeezing the water from the clean white cotton. ‘But ’e wouldn’t entertain Lil, though.’

  ‘Elsie won’t be very ’appy.’ Rose nodded for Jess to catch hold of the sheet as it came out the other side of the rollers, while she continued to work the handle, turning the wheel.

  ‘’E said she’d ‘ave to find something else, but ’e’ll give in, I reckon. Anyway, me an’ Win start back tomorrow.’

  ‘Good job an’ all. Yer dad’s back pay won’t last us much longer an’ Gawd alone knows when ’is next trip’ll be over. An’ if it stays as cold as this we’re gonna get through plenty of coal this winter.’

  Rose and Jess took two comers each of the sheet and draped it over the washing line that ran the length of the tiny, smut-filled back yard. Rose bent down and picked out a pillowcase from the tin bath of rinsing water, wringing it out with her hands before putting it in the mangle. Jess made no attempt to help.

  ‘Sammy an’ Ted’ll just ’ave to work a bit ’arder an’ give yer a bit more money then, won’t they? Or perhaps Charlie’ll be so kind as to write at last, from Chicago or wherever ’e is, an’ send us a few bob.’

  Surprised at the bitterness in her daughter’s voice Rose stopped turning the mangle, leaving the half-wrung cotton dangling between the worn wooden rollers. Wiping her raw, red hands on her apron, she said, ‘Let’s ’ave a cuppa tea, Jess. I’ve ’ad enough of this for a while. An’ I’ve got plenty to do indoors.’

  Jess followed her mother into the house from the back yard and sat at the kitchen table while Rose poured boiling water from the ever full kettle into the pot.

  ‘Yer gonna tell me what’s up, Jess?’

  ‘’Ow do yer mean?’

  ‘With you, gel. What’s up with yer? Face like a kite, yer’ve got. Jumpin’ down everyone’s throat all the time. Right misery yer’ve been lately.’

  Rose went over to the hearth. She spat on the flat iron she’d picked up from the fireside. It sizzled back at her. The little kitchen was filled with the smells of fresh laundry as Rose worked at the table next to Jessie, coaxing creases from the damp laundry with long strokes of the hot iron.

  ‘Leave me alone, eh, Mum,’ Jess said. She rubbed her hands, still stained from the hops, over her pale, drawn cheeks, her elbows resting on the only corner of the scrubbed white surface of the table not covered in piles of clean washing and ironing.

  ‘I ain’t never ’ad yer behavin’ like this, Jess, an’ I mean it, I don’t intend to start. Now, I’ll ask yer again, Jessie. Are yer gonna tell me what’s up?’ Rose rested the iron on its heel and picked up the teapot. She poured a stream of boiling tea into her daughter’s cup and pushed it towards her.

  Jess took one sip and her face drained of its final traces of colour. She stood up unsteadily and rushed back into the yard. Rose could hear her being sick from the kitchen. She slammed the teapot down on to the table, splashing the clean washing with brown stains.

  ‘Dammit, I bloody well thought so,’ she snapped to herself. She went outside to Jess. ‘Better now?’ she asked, rubbing her daughter between the shoulder blades.

  Jess was bent double, still choking and spluttering on to the patch of dirt that was the only bit of garden anyone living in Burton Street would ever have. She put her hands out and supported herself on the soot-engrained bricks which formed the boundary with Number 10 next door.

  ‘Aw, I feel so ill, Mum,’ she groaned pathetically.

  ‘Yer ain’t ill, yer silly little cow. Yer pregnant.’

  * * *

  ‘We’ll ’ave to get yer round to ol’ Granny Rawlins’s an’ get rid of it,’ said Rose. She and Jess had settled themselves back at the table, Rose drinking her tea, and Jess sipping at a cup of water.

  ‘No, Mum. Not that.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Jess.’ Rose did not feel as calm as she was trying to sound. ‘’Ow do yer think I only ’ad four kids?’ She reached out and took Jess’s hands in. ‘An’ ’ow about Mabel? I know she wishes she’d done somethin’ about ’er last one before it was too late. Poor little mite, dead before it was a year old. An’ I wouldn’t be surprised if ’er oldest don’t last the winter out neither. That the life yer want, is it, like Mabel’s? I know yer can be proud, an’ yer can be stubborn. Yer too like me, gel. But this ain’t the time for none of that.’

  ‘I ain’t stupid, Mum.’

  Rose raised a cynical eyebrow at her daughter’s claim. ‘Aw, no?’

  ‘I mean I ain’t bein’ stupid now.’ Jess gulped as her tears began to flow. It was all she seemed to do lately, she thought, cry and be sick. ‘I’ve seen what ’appens to girls who’ve been there. To Granny Rawlins’s. That’s ’ow Maggie down at Warner’s copped it. Eighteen she was, that’s all. Eighteen. Bled for days, then got a fever an’ died. I won’t do it, Mum. I mean it.’

  ‘It ain’t always like that, Jess.’

  ‘No, Mum. No matter what yer say, I ain’t lettin’ ’er touch me.’

  ‘It’s up to you. Yer ain’t a kid no more. But if yer wanna ’ave it, yer gonna ’ave to write to Sir George an’ see what ’im an’ ’is precious Robert are gonna do about it.’

  A look of real panic came over Jess’s pale face. ‘’Ow d’yer mean, write to Sir George? An’ what’s it gotta do with Robert?’

  ‘I ain’t stupid either, Jess. An’ I certainly ain’t blind. Once I’d got over me bad chest a bit, I knew exactly what was goin’ on down there. Let’s ’ope not too many others worked out what yer was up to.’ She poured herself another cup of tea. ‘An’ I can tell yer this much, Jess, I was right disappointed that yer lied to me. Right disappointed.’

  ‘But, Mum, it wasn’t like that, it was…’

  ‘It ain’t no good sayin’ nothin’ now. It’ll only make it worse. Yer lied to me, an’ that’s that.’

  ‘But it wasn’t like yer think, Mum.’

  ‘It never is, darlin’. It never is. Now, if yer wanna spend next year pickin’ oakum in the work’ouse instead of ’ops down in Kent, then that’s up to you. Yer the one ’oo’s gotta choose. Worlington or the work’ous
e?’

  * * *

  By the middle of December Jess had written five separate letters, dictated by her mother, to Sir George Worlington. There was no reply to any of them. Jess was feeling physically better – the sickness had stopped, and her belly was gently swelling – but she was becoming more and more depressed. Her father was due home at Christmas. She couldn’t imagine how she would explain things to him. He’d be so hurt.

  And then there were all the rumours going round about Jack that were upsetting her. Most of the stories were started, or at least embroidered and spread, by Florrie Baxter, of course. Florrie was only too keen to broadcast the poison. When they’d all got back from Kent, and she found out that Jack still hadn’t shown up, she’d revelled in it. It was too good an opportunity for Florrie to miss. She didn’t care if she upset Cyril Barnes, and she wasn’t even scared what Clara would say. She just couldn’t resist it. Some of the tales reckoned Jack had got someone in the family way and had run off to sea to escape his responsibilities. Others claimed he had found some money in one of the letters he was employed to deliver, and that he had stolen it and gone off to start a new life up north – Manchester or somewhere, they said. There was even wild talk of him being the victim of one of the cosh gangs who made their living down by the docks, but nobody really believed Jack Barnes would have any business down in Chinatown, no matter whatever else he got up to.

  Sammy and Ted weren’t having a very good time either. They weren’t entirely sure what was going on indoors, although they guessed that it might have something to do with Jack Barnes having it away on his toes like that, but they knew well enough to keep their heads down. And at least they did still have their jobs – there were plenty didn’t have work in Poplar – so they could go to The Star of a evening. And what with Jess moping about and Rose ready to have a go at them for nothing all the time, they were only too pleased to go there and escape, although it was working out a bit pricey, and the novelty of going to the pub every night was wearing a bit thin.

  In fact, the only real ray of light in the whole Fairleigh household was a scribbled five-line note they’d got from Charlie the week before. It said that he was doing all right for himself, more than all right if they must know; that he was working and saving hard, and that he wished them all a happy Christmas and promised to write again soon.

  * * *

  ‘Seems there might be even more trouble before Christmas is out,’ said Robert.

  The Worlington family sat eating their breakfast,their post and the newspapers. Leonore shaded her eyes from the bright winter sun as she looked across the table to her elder child. ‘What was that, Robert?’

  ‘Seems they’re taking this business in the Balkans seriously again,’ he said holding up his copy of The Times for his mother to see, as though the printed word would somehow prove his point. ‘There’s even talk of reserve officers assembling. Implications for the rest of Europe and all that.’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing,’ said Paul, forking another slice of kidney and a heap of scrambled egg into his mouth.

  ‘This is men’s business, little brother,’ said Robert, shaking the crisp pages and folding them back on themselves.

  Paul glared at Robert, and was furious to see Julia giggle. ‘I’m only two years younger than you,’ he snapped petulantly.

  ‘More like twenty-two from the way you act,’ said Robert coolly.

  ‘Hardly a subject to argue over,’ said Lady Worlington. ‘You boys really do drive me to distraction at times.’ She looked towards her husband, hoping that he might support her, or maybe contribute to the conversation in some way. ‘Do you take this threat in Europe seriously, George?’ she asked, trying to involve him.

  ‘Load of damned nonsense over a load of damned fool foreigners, if you’re really interested,’ he barked, and stood up from the table.

  His napkin fell to the floor, where he left it. He also left his letters and envelopes strewn around his plate – all except one, that is, which he was careful to slip, unopened, into his pocket.

  ‘Can’t sit here all morning talking about such rubbish. Lots to do.’

  He strode purposefully towards the big double doors which opened into the main hall. He grabbed the door handle and spoke without bothering to turn round.

  ‘But if there is a possibility of war,’ he patted his pocket, checking that the letter was still there, ‘better get this marriage thing organised pretty damn quick. Don’t want young Julia waving goodbye to her fiance going off to battle. That’s a wife’s job. Need to be a wife for that sort of thing.’

  Sir George left the room without worrying about shutting the doors behind him. The butler, Tyler, moved from his position behind Lady Worlington’s chair and soundlessly closed them. Only he and Paul had seen the momentary look of horror on Julia Markington’s face when Sir George had mentioned matrimony.

  * * *

  When he had shut himself safely away in the library, Sir George sat at the elegant partners’ desk and opened the letter that he had secreted in his pocket. He scanned the contents briefly. He had been right; it was another letter from the Fairleigh woman, the fifth she had sent to him about her daughter’s ‘condition’, if he remembered correctly.

  He read it through again, more carefully this time. He was barely able to stifle his amusement that the ridiculous woman could imagine he would respond to her pleas for Robert to do the ‘decent thing’, whatever she thought that might be.

  As the door opened and Julia and Paul walked in, they saw Sir George hurriedly push the letter and envelope he had been studying under the blotter on his desk. Paul smiled to see his father hastily affecting a most uncharacteristic interest in the toppling pile of papers in front of him.

  ‘Father,’ said Paul very firmly, addressing the back of his father’s head, ‘Julia wishes to say something to you.’

  * * *

  ‘And what exactly does Robert have to say about all this?’ asked Sir George when Julia had said her piece. He was still feigning a deep fascination with the heap of unanswered correspondence before him.

  ‘He agrees with her, Father,’ said Paul, speaking for Julia, who had nodded her consent for him to do so. ‘It would be best all round to postpone the wedding. At least until all this business in Europe is sorted out. The situation is very uncertain at the moment, as everybody is aware. If war really were to be declared Robert would be worrying about Julia all the time. Most distracting. And it wouldn’t be fair on Julia either. She wouldn’t want to be an army wife. But she’ll be perfectly happy to stay here. With us at Worlington, I mean.’

  Sir George waited a moment, then slowly turned round to face his busybody of a younger son and the wealthy girl whom he was banking on becoming his future daughter-in-law by marrying his elder son.

  ‘Now let me see,’ Sir George began in an ominously quiet and controlled tone. ‘As far as I can tell this marriage business has very little to do with you, Paul. Nothing at all, in fact.’

  He leant back in his chair and formed his fingers into a steeple over his big, round, tweed-clad belly. He tapped the tips of his fat fingers together with a slow rhythmic patting.

  ‘But you appear to know a damned lot about it all.’

  Sir George’s now quavering voice gave away the fact that he was nearing the point when his temper would finally be lost. Even the merest possibility of Worlington Hall having to sacrifice the Markington dowry, because of his sons’ idiotic ideas, was enough to make him very angry indeed.

  ‘So what the hell are you doing here, Paul? Would you explain yourself to me?’

  ‘I’m here because Robert asked me to come along with Julia, actually,’ Paul said confidently. ‘He had a previous engagement, you see. Had to go and see someone.’

  ‘Exercising his hunter, you mean,’ said Julia tartly.

  ‘Exercising his hunter?’ Sir George’s red-veined cheeks engorged to an alarming degree as he rose to his feet, pushed past his younger son and rushed out of the library
to get his hands around the throat of his elder son and heir.

  ‘Goodness me,’ was the only comment Julia made, as she fanned herself with her pretty milky-white hand and glided around the room looking fleetingly at the titles which lined the shelves.

  ‘Ignore him. He goes off like that all the time,’ said Paul, going over to the desk. He picked up the letter and envelope he had seen his father slip underneath the blotter.

  ‘Now here’s something far more interesting than the old man’s temper tantrums,’ he said, smiling at Julia, who didn’t actually seem very interested in much at all. ‘Let’s see, what do you think Father would want to hide from us? A mistress? Gambling debts?’

  Paul looked quickly through the carefully formed lines of writing, letting out a long, slow whistle as the contents of the letter became clear to him. ‘Oh dear, Robert,’ he said, grinning like a fool. ‘Oh dear, dear me. You have been a very silly boy. Very silly indeed. I wonder what Mama will make of this.’

  Unwittingly following his father’s example, Paul slipped the letter into his pocket.

  Julia had not listened to Paul; she was too busy admiring her reflection in the long windows which overlooked the gardens. Nor had she noticed the beauty of the pale blue shadows on the deep drifts of snow, nor the breathtaking sight of the bare oak trees standing tall and magnificent against the December sky. All she could see was her trim figure silhouetted in the glass in front of her.

  She spoke in her light, girlish voice. ‘I think yellow suits me very well. Don’t you, Paul?’

  Chapter 13

  Justice

  Rose pulled back the red plush curtain that was drawn to keep out the winter draughts and peered round the crowded, smoke-filled public bar.